


The Other Life (or, Promise Me I Won't See You at Work)

by Anonymous



Category: John 5 (Musician), Marilyn Manson (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Body Horror, Coercion, Come Eating, Crying During Sex, Eating Disorder, Fainting, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, I DON'T EVEN GO HERE, I don't think it's a Dead Dove thing., I guess? I don't really know how to tag that., It could be a big issue or it could be fine., It's more of a 'Chemicals that might cause cancer in California' thing, Jim describes an autopsy, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Sexual Abuse, RPF, Suicidal Ideation, also, but not really sexual coercion, can you tell I'm really struggling with the tags?, description of an autopsy with sexual tension, dubcon elements, dubious consent to a description of an autopsy with sexual tension, especially because it's a, fainting from low blood sugar, unhealthy eating habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22400551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: This is an unauthorized companion fic for the Very Wrong Dead Dove Darkfic “In Another Life” by dysphorie where Jim is a medical examiner and John is suicidal/dead.This is the “other life” where John doesn’t die. (And it’s a little less of a dead dove.)
Relationships: John 5/Jim Root
Comments: 23
Kudos: 24
Collections: Anonymous





	The Other Life (or, Promise Me I Won't See You at Work)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In Another Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20364931) by [dysphorie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/pseuds/dysphorie). 



> What IS this?? A fan fic of a really fucked up fan fic. And I don’t even go here!  
> I read a 10k necro fic out of pure morbid curiosity and it turned out to be oddly sweet and sentimental and tragic? Ao3 user dysphorie: how dare you. I was expecting fucked up shit but I got fucked up shit that was heartbreaking and almost beautiful. And I wanted the other version of the story (the “other life”) where John isn’t dead. Because I was sad. But that version didn’t exist. Rude?? So I wrote it myself. And maybe I accidentally wrote in a few of my favorite tropes. So what? Stop looking at me.  
> Again, I don’t even go here. So if the characterization sucks and you’re cringing at your screen going “He would never say THAT” then you can copy this and edit it to make your own version. IDGAF, okay? This is posted anonymously. I might even orphan it soon, and I’m never going to admit I wrote it so do whatever you want with it.  
> (And apologies to dysphorie for whatever the hell this is. It just happened. Sorry.)

Jim arrived at the morgue for the night shift, like he usually did. After all this time working here, they still gave him some of the shittiest shifts. He sat at his desk, shuffling through the paperwork that had piled up since the last time he had been here. As he waited for the familiar cold and the chemical smells of the morgue to fade into the background, he started figuring out which forms he could put off until later and which ones he really should get around to doing. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Jim wasn’t the kind of person to get jumpy in a morgue. He had been around the dead enough that he knew they don’t move. Usually. But he could still get surprised. 

It was Jay, one of the other medical examiners. 

“Work,” Jim told him. “Why, what are you doing here?” 

“Work,” Jay said. “They changed the shifts at the start of the month. You don’t remember?” 

Shit, Jim thought. Jay was right. They did. He was so used to getting up at the same times every week, going into work at the same times every week, sitting at the same desk at the same times every week and filling out the same forms every week, that he had forgotten things had changed. 

Well, he thought. I’m not going to complain. 

“Right.” Jim started putting away the files and packing up his things. 

“Unless you still want it,” Jay offered. “If you really--” 

“Nope. All yours,” Jim told him, already at the door. “See you later.” 

Once he was out of the building, he realized he had no idea what to do. He loved an unexpected day off as much as the next guy, but he had nothing planned. He didn’t know what to do with himself. 

He decided to go by the small venue near his apartment to see if there was anything good there that night. It was part of the reason he chose the shitty place he lived. If he wasn’t a professional musician, he at least wanted to be near music. He hadn’t bothered to check who was on the bill for that night. Probably a shitty local band for an opener, maybe a not-as-shitty semi-local band for the headliner. Maybe he’d get lucky, with sex or with whether or not the bands that night new what the hell they were doing. It wasn’t exactly a wildly popular mainstream place, though. At the very least, he could get drunk somewhere that wasn’t his couch. 

As he approached the venue, the muffled sounds of loud riffs and vocals drifted down the street towards him. He tried to hear what it sounded like, but it was hard to make out the details of the music. At least they were all playing in time with each other. But did he really want to risk sitting through bad live music? Maybe it was just better to get drunk at home instead. It was already a weird day. 

Then something caught his eye. Someone. 

Blonde hair, thin frame, beautiful face. The guy had just left the venue. He wore the unofficial uniform of the kind of people you’d find at the place: slightly worn out black jeans and an even more worn out KISS shirt, with boots and a denim vest. Colorful tattoos ran down his arms. There was something about him that made Jim’s brain stop working. Something that about him that made everything else suddenly seem like it didn’t really matter, fading into the background. 

The guy was walking towards Jim, who slowed as he approached. 

“Shit band tonight?” Jim asked him. 

The guy looked a little surprised. 

“I’m thinking of going in,” Jim explained. “Are they any good?” 

“Oh, the opener? Not really,” he said with an apologetic smile. 

“Thanks. I won’t bother,” Jim told him. “At least not yet. I can’t stand hearing and seeing bad playing.” 

“They’re almost done. But yeah, they…” The guy was probably too polite to finish the sentence, but they shared a look that said everything. 

“I know,” Jim said. “It’s painful to watch. Sometimes I want to pull them aside and teach them how to do it right.” 

That beautiful face lit up. “You play?” 

“Yeah, guitar.” 

“Hey, me too!” He extended his hand. “I’m John.” 

Jim shook it. It was small with thin fingers, matching the guy’s size. “I’m Jim.” 

“Jim, hi,” John said, smiling. His face was meant for it. It somehow made him even more beautiful. John had deep brown eyes, and they were looking into his. Jim could barely think. He wasn’t sure if time was moving in slow motion or fast forward. It crossed his mind that he might look weird to John, just standing there and staring. 

Thankfully, John didn’t seem bothered. “So do you tour with anyone?” 

“You mean a band?” Jim asked. 

“Band, solo artist, whatever,” John said. “I’ve done both. Backing bands for solo artists aren’t that bad. It pays the bills and you find yourself in all these crazy situations.” 

Jim almost chuckles ruefully. “I thought I might end up touring at one point. That was back in high school, though.” Jim shrugged. “Life happened. Band broke up. Got a degree instead. But who doesn’t have those dreams as a kid, you know?” 

“Since you didn’t end up being a rock star, what do you do for work?” John asked. 

Yeah, that was bound to come up at some point. It was the question that usually ended up with people changing their tone or not knowing what to say. Or even making polite excuses to leave and not come back. 

Well, what the hell. If he hadn’t gotten the night off unexpectedly, he never would have met John in the first place. Maybe luck was on his side. 

“I’m a medical examiner,” he said casually. He hoped John had asked just to be polite and wouldn’t know what it was. Then they could just go back to talking about music. 

“Like the guy they send mangled murder victims to in cop shows?” John asked. 

Shit. Oh well. 

“Yeah, that’s me. But I get all the other ones too. Heart attacks, accidents, suicides…” 

Some strange expression was on John’s face, but it left just as suddenly as it had arrived. “That’s still cool,” John said. 

Jim was surprised. “Cool?” Even in cop shows, medical examiners weren’t sexy. Hollywood M.E.s were really weird or really cold. Usually both. 

“You’re around death all day,” John explained. “Most people are scared of death. I think it’s interesting.” 

Jim’s eyebrows went up. “Don’t people think that’s weird?” 

“Sure,” John grinned, leaning on his shoulder against the brick wall of the building. “But they probably think you’re weird too.” 

He had a point. 

“Hey, when the opener is done, do you want to go back in and see if the next one’s any better? I’ll buy you a drink.” 

“Oh, no thanks,” John said. “I don’t drink or do that kind of stuff.” He shifted on his feet. 

Jim silently cursed how there wasn’t a better alternative to buying someone a drink that still said “I’m being very friendly and I probably want to fuck you later so let me know if you want that.” 

“There’s a better band next week,” Jim told him. “Early melodic metal type stuff. Maybe I’ll see you then.” 

“Uh, yeah, maybe,” John says, suddenly sounding a little uncomfortable and distant. 

Fuck. This was doing downhill fast. He had didn’t want John to just walk away. He didn’t know if their paths would ever cross again. Fate was a bitch like that sometimes. 

John suddenly pitched forward, gravity taking complete control. 

What the hell? 

Jim scrambled to position himself to catch John, grabbing him and pulling him in before he hit the pavement. John weighed less than he expected. He slowly lowered John down, but he knelt on the ground and kept his arms wrapped around John’s chest and head, so John wouldn’t have to lie on the dirty street. 

John was unconscious, his face smooth and calm. His head lolled over Jim’s arm. At this angle, his upturned face and the tousled blonde hair around it caught more light from the streetlights above. He looked otherworldly. Maybe unnatural. It almost reminded him of the bodies he worked with. But somehow different. Like he was holding a fallen angel. When the fuck did he turn into a romantic poet? Jim would bring someone home for the night occasionally, but this was different from that too. This was more intimate. He started to notice all the details of John’s face--the curves and the proportions--as if he was planning to recreate it in marble later. 

Something jolted him back to reality. 

“John?” he asked. He didn’t really know what else to do. Jim didn’t usually deal with people he was worried might die. These days, he mostly dealt with people who were already dead. Unless… With two fingers to the side of John’s trachea, Jim found a pulse. 

“Hey, John?” He rested a hand on the side of John’s face. Just to see if it helped wake him up. And that was the only reason. He didn’t do it to touch the curves of John’s cheekbones and jawline. That was just a coincidence. Jim’s large hand cradled John’s face, like he was trying to anchor him to this world instead of letting him drift off to whatever other universe he had come from. 

What the hell happened? He had been acting a little unsteady right before he collapsed. Did he overdose? He said he didn’t drink or do drugs. Maybe John lied. It wouldn’t be the first time a junkie lied. 

He carefully shifted John’s weight to bring his arms up--one and then the other--to check for needle marks in the delicate skin on the undersides of the forearms. Nothing. Not even a sign of past injections. And Jim would know. He’d seen the aftermath of enough overdoses. Maybe John had ingested something instead. It would be much harder to tell if he did, and harder to figure out what it was. Normally he’d cut the body open, sample the stomach contents and send it to the lab. But John was alive, and Jim was off duty tonight. 

John stirred in his arms, Jim feeling every slight movement of his body. 

“John?” Jim asked again. 

John slowly opened his eyes, lashes gently fluttering as he tried to make sense of things. He looked up at Jim and his warm brown eyes were closer than they had ever been, making Jim disoriented too. John glanced around, taking in his surroundings. The pavement, the wall, the slightly muffled noise of the venue in the background, and Jim’s body curled around him protectively. 

“You just passed out,” Jim told him. “What happened?” 

“Oh…” John said. “Yeah I… I think I forgot to eat.” 

“How do you forget to eat?” Jim asked. He’d seen a lot of dumb ways people had died--sex heart attacks, sports car crashes, falls from hubristic heights, an untreated horse bite, accidental electrocution from a trendy kitchen appliance, even intentionally not eating--but forgetting to eat, fainting, and having bad enough luck to get lethal bunt force head trauma would still be a really dumb way to go. 

John shrugged slightly in his arms. 

Jim stood up slowly while hauling John up with him. John staggered, leaning on the wall until he got his balance. 

“You need to eat something,” Jim told him. “They only sell booze inside. There’s a diner around the block, but I think they close in ten minutes.” Jim might only deal with dead people now, but he did go through medical school so he still had that responsibility vow or something. And that meant he was obligated to help people who needed help. So that was the only reason he was insisting on going out to eat with John. “There’s a Thai place on the next street. But they usually close at seven…” 

“You seem to know this place pretty well,” John said. 

“I live nearby.” 

“We could go to your place,” John suggested. “I could even stay the night, if you want.” 

Jim’s brain and his dick took sides. His dick wanted John to stay the night--all night--if he could. But his brain started going on about how he shouldn’t take advantage of someone who was obviously vulnerable. But trying to help John--which he was obligated to do because of that med school thing he barely remembered--and trying to fuck him both involved bringing him home. 

“Yeah, sure. Can you make it on your own?” 

“Maybe,” John said. 

Jim watched him every step of the way and kept close in case he needed to grab John again. Thankfully, they didn’t have to go far. 

At his apartment building, Jim suddenly realized he didn’t go out tonight looking to bring someone home. So he hadn’t bothered to pick up his apartment. He hoped it was reasonably clean. But he still warned John “I don’t usually have people over. So if it’s a mess, sorry about that.” 

“Is this a new thing for you?” John asked. 

“Not new,” Jim told him. “Just rare. Most people get scared off by the M.E. thing.” He led John down the hall to his door. “Can’t blame them. A guy who’s 6’ 6” works with dead bodies all day? I wouldn’t want to go home with him either.” He rummaged around for his keys. 

“This is fun,” John said with a smile. “It’s like the beginning of a horror movie. The first victim is some vulnerable person no one would miss. They ignore all the warning signs and then they end up dead in a bath tub or something. And the pretty blonde one always dies first, right?” he joked. 

“What, you got a death wish or something?” Jim asked. 

John didn’t say anything. 

“Or maybe you’re just into guys who could be serial killers,” he added on, trying to fill the silence with anything but the jingling of his keys, so things didn’t get too awkward. 

“I’d take a monster, too,” John told him. “So if you’re secretly a wolfman or something, I’m still into it.” 

Jim chuckled, turning the key in the doorknob. “Sorry, not a wolfman. But I like the movie.” 

He led John in, flipping on the lights. 

“Aw man,” John sounded disappointed as he walked in behind Jim. “No table saw? No chains? Or are they in the bedroom?” 

“Sorry,” Jim told him. “I’m just a normal guy. Who happens to work with dead bodies.” He went to the kitchen, with John trailing behind. “Orange juice? Gotta get your blood sugar up again.” 

Jim opened the fridge to get the orange juice. 

“No body parts in the fridge either,” John commented. 

“No. No eyeballs, no ears, no hearts, no dead doves.” Jim got a glass from the cupboard and poured. “I try to keep my work and my personal life separate.” He did try. Most of the time. He handed John the glass, telling him “The scariest thing in this apartment is probably that leftover takeout in the fridge from a month ago.” 

John hadn’t taken a drink of the orange juice yet. He just stood there, watching Jim with a little smile on his lips. 

“I didn’t poison it,” Jim told him. “But it only makes it more suspicious when I say that,” he thinks aloud. 

John’s smile got a little bigger. 

“But you’re the one who was hoping I’d kill you, right?” Jim said. “Just drink it. So you don’t pass out again.” 

John took a sip. “Maybe I want to pass out again,” he said. 

Was he trying to flirt? 

“If I passed out again, you’d catch me again.” He was trying to flirt. And it was working. 

John took another sip and glanced up at Jim as he swallowed. 

His dick and his brain were fighting again. He had to keep this professional. Because of that vow thing. At least until he knew John wasn’t going to fall over at any moment. But he also wanted to grab John, bend him over the counter and fuck him until his face was flushed and strands of his blonde hair were stuck to his forehead with sweat and he was whimpering and desperate to come. 

But he couldn’t yet. Because of that vow thing. 

“Maybe you should stay until I’m sure that won’t happen when I’m not around,” Jim told him. 

“If you let me stay for the night, I’d make it worth it,” John said. 

He could cross the kitchen in two paces. He could grab John’s hips in his hands and turn him around, pushing him down. He could tangle his fingers in John’s hair. He could lean over, the weight of his body pressing John against the counter. He could growl into his ear what he wanted to do to him. Ask if he liked it rough. If he wanted it right now. John might let out a breathy “Yes.” 

Med school vow thing. Not yet. He tried to calm his dick down, hoping John hadn’t noticed it was started to get hard. It was probably too late, though. 

“I’m not going to say no,” he told John. Which was an understatement. “Just not right now. So what do you want?” 

“For sex?” John asked politely. 

That was it. That was too much. It was barely painful now. It was just ridiculous. Jim’s brain scrambled, trying to keep it together. Or at least make sense of it. But what the hell? Had the characters from Barbarella crash landed on his block? Did he run into Pygar at the venue and bring him home? Did that mean there was a woman in a silver bathing suit and thigh-high boots running around in the street outside? 

“No. For food,” Jim told him, managing to keep a calm voice. “Sex later. If you pass out, I want it to be because of me. Not because your organs are shutting down.” 

John was about to talk, but Jim cut him off. 

“And don’t make a joke about eating dick,” he grumbled. Mostly because he didn’t think he could handle one more sex-related thing out of John’s pink cupid’s bow lips. “Something easy on your system, maybe? Toast?” 

“I don’t know if I can eat much,” John said. “It’s been a while since I had anything. I’ll be good with this,” he said, taking another drink of juice. 

“Yeah, you’re staying the night,” Jim told him. “I’d feel better if you stayed here until I can be sure you won’t end up in an ambulance later. That might be a while.” 

John was quiet as he slowly took sips of his juice. 

The silence might have been awkward, but Jim used it to just watch John. Mostly for signs of another collapse. Mostly that. But there was something about this otherworldly figure standing in his kitchen. Something that he wanted to soak in. His slim frame that leaned back slightly against the counter. His eyes that looked down at the drink. His fingers that were curled around the glass. The way his denim vest hung on his shoulders. The way his pale skin--almost too pale, almost like a corpse but not quite--looked in the light of the apartment. The way his hair fell. It was haphazard but it felt intentional. It seemed like the world had planned on him being a bit of a mess, and made sure he would still be beautiful. 

Jim suddenly got hit by the feeling that maybe John wasn’t supposed to be here. Not that he wasn’t supposed to be here in his apartment. That maybe John wasn’t supposed to be here in the world at all. 

John finished the juice, putting the glass down on the counter behind him. 

“Better?” Jim asked. 

“Yeah, thanks,” John said. 

He did look a little better. Less disoriented. But less lighthearted too. His shoulders were rolled forward a bit, and he wasn’t meeting Jim’s eyes as much. 

“You’re not much of a talker, hunh?” John added, with a little smile on his lips again. But he still stared at the floor. 

“I’m not the most social person,” Jim admitted. “Most of the people I deal with at work are really annoying. But the good thing is, the rest of them don’t talk because they’re dead. I can’t stand most of the living.” 

“What about me?” John asked. 

“Not you,” Jim said. “You’re fine. Much rather be here with you than at work with dead people.” 

John shifted on his feet. 

“I almost had work tonight,” Jim mentioned. “Glad I didn’t, though. Wouldn’t have run into you.” 

“You probably would have anyway,” John said quietly. 

Jim’s mind froze. 

“You would have gotten all the deaths in the city that happened overnight, right?” John asked. 

All the pieces fell into place. John did have a death wish. He would have ended up in an ambulance. And Jim would have seen him tonight anyway. 

If they hadn’t crossed paths earlier, John might have killed himself already. His body might have already started to grow cold. The police might have already started filling out the paperwork that would land on Jim’s desk. John might already be zipped into a black body bag. And later, Jim would have opened it up again. He would have stared down at the blank expression and grayish skin of John’s angelic face as he lay on the metal slab. But instead he was staring at John’s quietly desperate and pained expression on his pale pinkish face as he stood in his kitchen. 

“Hey, maybe I could still see you at work some time,” John said softly. “Maybe I could drop by next week.” His smile was so vacant that it was more painful than if he hadn’t tried to smile at all. 

“Take your shirt off,” Jim told him. 

“What?” John asked quietly. 

“Take off your shirt,” Jim commanded. “And your shoes.” 

John removed his vest and shirt, then his boots. He glanced at Jim uncertainly. 

Jim picked up John. John was still lighter than he expected. He carried him like he used to do with dead bodies. These days he got someone else to do it for him. But this was different. This one wasn’t dead yet. He brought John to the bedroom and positioned him on the bed as if it was the slab at work. John lay on his back with his arms at his sides, like any other body that went through the morgue. Then Jim sat over his thighs, pinning him down with his weight and looming over John’s slight frame. 

John’s body was laid out below him. He could see more of his elaborate and tattoos that stretched from his wrists to his shoulders and into his chest. He could see more of his pale skin and the shape of his thin build. He could see the curve of his neck better, and the delicate collarbones below it. 

“I never want to see you at work,” Jim told him. “I’d have to cut your skull open to weigh your brain,” he explained. He cradled John’s head in his large left hand, lifting it gently off the pillow. He used the index finger of his right hand to trace a line--like a morbid halo--around the back of the head, through the fluffy blonde hair. “I’d have to peel back the skin and push it forward. It messes up the face.” Jim lowered John’s head back down to the pillow. 

John looked up at him, his gaze calm but intense. 

“I’d have to open up your chest,” Jim’s finger moved to the upper corner of John’s ribcage, in the middle of where the extension of his tattoo sleeve bloomed across his chest. Then Jim traced a line downwards diagonally, towards the middle of the sternum. “I’d have to cut right through your tattoos.” Jim dragged his finger straight down through the Kanji tattoo in the center of John’s chest, a metaphor for how the scalpel would slice through the pale skin and the art on it, like a vandal slashing a priceless painting. “They would be ruined.” Jim kept tracing--kept cutting--all the way down through his abdomen and stopped at the place between the hip bones where the waistband of John’s jeans stopped him. 

John’s body twitched under Jim’s finger. He was half hard. 

Jim realized he was too. But he kept going.

“I’d have to take out all your organs to weigh them and take samples. The intestines,” he placed his hand on John’s lower abdomen, the span of his hand easily spreading across the expanse of soft skin. “The liver,” the hand moved to the right side of John’s lower rib cage, which rose and fell with breaths that were slightly deeper and faster than normal. Then Jim moved it up a bit, just to left of the bottom of the sternum, where he could feel a slight pounding. “The heart--” 

John’s hand flew up and grabbed Jim’s wrist. The smaller, thinner fingers wrapped around it with what almost felt like desperation. 

A faint smile was on John’s lips and his eyes stared into Jim’s. “That’s okay,” he said softly. “I’d be okay with that. If it was you…” 

“You’d trust me take you apart?” Jim asked. “Cut through your ribs and open you up?” 

John nodded slowly, mussing his hair against the pillow. 

“You’d be okay with me doing things to your body?” 

“Yes,” John whispered. 

“What about now?” Jim could feel John’s cock beneath him, getting harder. “Would you trust me to do things to your body now?” 

“Yes,” John said, his eyes wide and desperate. “Do whatever you want.” 

John lay perfectly still. The only evidence he was alive was his chest rising and falling and his eyes staring intensely at Jim. 

“Whatever you want…” John repeated. 

Jim leaned down to kiss John, long and slow with his hand on John’s cheek, stroking it with his thumb. He moved down John’s neck, placing kisses down to his collarbones and out to his shoulder. Jim swept the strands of blonde hair away from John’s face. 

John looked confused. He had probably expected to be thrown around and told to bite down as he moaned in pain. He might have expected to get scratch marks across his back and bite marks on his shoulders as he was pounded into the bed. He had expected to be abused. 

But that wasn’t what he needed right now. 

Jim took off his shirt and pants and underwear. With a kiss on John’s temple, he undid John’s jeans and pulled them off, revealing John’s hard dick. 

With another kiss on John’s neck, Jim told him “I’m glad I ran into you tonight. I’m glad you’re alive.” 

Reaching into the drawer of the bedside table, Jim pulled out the lube and put some on his palm. He started stroking John, slowly. 

John was trembling slightly. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jim told him. 

John didn’t stop trembling. If anything, he got more tense. 

“Are you not used to this?” Jim asked. 

John nodded. He wasn’t. 

He put a hand on John’s side like he was trying to steady him. “Are you used to being abused?” 

“Yeah,” John whispered. 

“Are you not used to people caring about you? Do they use you and leave you?” 

John nodded again. “It’s always been like that. I look for it. Because I don’t…” John swallowed nervously. “I never thought I…” 

Jim understood what he was trying to say. “You deserve to be treated better,” Jim told him. “You’ve had enough happen to you already. I think it’s time for something different.” 

John’s arms wrapped around Jim’s body, holding on tight for dear life. He pulled Jim down so he could bury his face in Jim’s broad shoulder. Jim felt wetness where John’s face pressed against his skin. John’s breath came in small gasps and ragged exhales. 

“What do you want this time?” Jim asked, his voice deep and low and quiet. 

“I want you inside me,” John mumbled. “Sorry, I--” 

Jim nodded. “Don’t apologize for what you want.” 

John let him go and fell back on the pillow, his face blotchy and his eyes red. His breath was shaky and deep but slow. 

Jim put lube on his fingers and moved them up and down across John’s hole. He placed his other hand on the skin just inside of John’s hip bone, savoring the softness and the warmth. 

As a medical examiner, he sometimes wished he didn’t know the things he knew. His fingers passed over something he instantly recognized. A rectal fissure. If John liked it rough, that make sense. But whoever was with him should have prepped him better. They might not have even used lube. John wasn’t a cheap toy to be used for a quick thrill and then tossed aside again. It felt like it had been torn open multiple times. Maybe by multiple people. Jim pictured John coming home, again, split open and sore. He pictured John trying to tend to himself and get to sleep when he was in pain. He can only hope it was consensual. If it wasn’t, whoever did it was lucky that Jim had no idea who they were. 

He pushed a finger in slowly. John exhaled and closed his eyes. Jim sunk deeper and started feeling around in John’s soft, hot insides. Jim knew his anatomy. It didn’t take long to find the right place. 

John inhaled sharply and moaned. 

“You alright?” Jim asked. 

John nodded vigorously, eyes shut and head thrown back on the pillow. 

He moved his other hand to work John’s cock as he kept stroking the sweet spot for a moment. Then he eased two fingers in and kept stroking. John keened, his hand grasping the bedding. Jim kissed his thigh as he worked in three. 

John drew another unsteady breath, the muscles of his abdomen shaking. He let out a sob. Jim couldn’t tell if it was from physical pleasure or emotional pain. 

“I can stop,” Jim told him. 

“No,” John choked out. “Keep going. I want to feel you in me.” 

Jim pulled out his fingers and lubed his cock. John caught his breath as Jim positioned himself over. Jim kissed his wet cheek, tasting salt. He lined himself up against John’s hole and slowly eased in. He pushed in and out slightly as he gradually worked deeper into John. John’s chest heaved erratically under Jim’s body as uneven breaths were forced in and out. Jim felt him shake and twitch gently around his cock with every breath. 

“Could you--” John started. “Sorry…” 

“What do you want?” Jim murmured against his ear. “What do you need?” 

“The angle,” John exhaled. “Just a little--” 

Jim shifted his hips to move against John’s tight insides in a slightly different way. John pressed his lips shut as he whined and clenched around Jim. John’s fingers combed into Jim’s hair and held on. He drew Jim’s lips to his for a kiss. Jim found a good rhythm, and John moaned into his mouth. 

John broke away and whimpered “Please?” It was so pathetic and apologetic that Jim nearly lost it. And not just in arousal. In anger at all the things that John must have gone through to make him that way. 

“What is it?” Jim asked. “What should I do?” 

“Come inside me?” John begged, his eyes dilated and needy. 

Jim didn’t need much more. He quickened his pace, pushing harder. As he came, he kissed John. Their lips moved against each other as he finished, riding through the orgasm as John clenched and twitched around him. 

Jim pulled out. His hands followed down the smooth sides of John’s body until they rested on his hips, thumbs stroking John’s skin. His come leaked out of John as John’s hard cock twitched. Jim took the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and licking a broad stroke up the underside. John shivered. 

“More,” John panted. Jim took him deeper into his mouth, sucking and moving his tongue up and down. He pulled off and licked up the length. With fast small strokes, he moved the tip of his tongue at the spot on the underside of the head, just below the slit. 

John sobbed again, his body shaking. 

One of Jim’s hands held John’s hip. The other worked the lower part of John’s length as his mouth bobbed up and down on the upper part. Jim added tongue and suction, his hand moving faster. 

With a cry, John finished in Jim’s mouth. It was hot and sweet, and Jim savored the taste of it. 

He pulled off and looked over John’s body sprawled out over the bed. Slightly sweaty. Face flushed. Streams of tears down his cheeks. Chest heaving. Hand flung haphazardly up near his head, its fingers curling in gently, not knowing what to do with themselves. So vulnerable. But so alive. 

John propped himself up on one elbow. He reached out and put a hand on the back of Jim’s neck, drawing him in. Jim met his soft lips, kissing him deeply. John’s tongue brushed against his mouth as he tasted himself in Jim. 

“Where are you going?” John asked, scared and confused and Jim headed for the bedroom door. 

“I’ll be back. I’m going to clean you up,” Jim told him. He returned with a warm damp towel and wiped the tears from John’s face, the sweat from John’s skin, and the come from between his legs. While he took care of John’s body, John lay still. He gazed at the ceiling lost in his head. 

“That’s why I never want to see you at work,” Jim told him. John looked up hesitantly. Jim positioned himself over John again, looking into the dark brown eyes. “Do you understand? I don’t want to see you at work. Ever. Because if I do, it would be the last time I’d ever get to see you.” 

“You’d make it count though, right?” John teased. But there was something half-hearted about it. 

“I don’t work at the morgue 24/7,” Jim told him. “So you can’t just die and assume I’ll be the one who does your autopsy.” 

“I know,” John said. “I’ll take that chance.” 

“You want to get dissected by Chris?” Jim asked. “He just slaps organs on the scale. It gets fluid all over the floor. He doesn’t care what it looks like when he stitches people up again. There was almost an internal investigation because he did such a bad job with this little old lady. Her family was furious, the face was all fucked up and--” 

“Okay, okay…” John quietly insisted. His eyes drifted towards a corner of the ceiling. He said something so quietly that Jim couldn’t hear it. 

“What?” Jim asked. 

John wouldn’t meet his eyes when he asked “When are your shifts?” 

“Hell no,” Jim said. “I already told you. I never want to see you at work. You understand me?” 

John nodded slightly with his head turned to stare at the wall. 

“And don’t go dying in another district, either. I have no idea what the fuck their medical examiners are like.” Jim’s voice started to rise. The thought of someone making mistakes and doing a sloppy job with John’s beautiful body lit a rage in him that he hadn’t felt before. “They might not have any M.E.s at all. They might just have coroners,” he speculated angrily. “Coroners never know what the fuck they’re doing.” 

Jim saw what might have been a tear in the corner of John’s eye. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized in a softer voice. “I just don’t want anyone putting their hands all over you and inside of you when I can’t make sure they’ll treat you well and do it right.” 

John’s eyes slid closed. 

“Promise me you won’t let someone else get their hands on your organs,” Jim insisted. 

“Okay,” John whispered. 

“And promise me I won’t see you at work,” Jim said. 

John was silent, staring blankly at nothing in particular. 

Jim leaned down and gently took John’s face in his hands, turning it towards him. Their noses almost touching, Jim looked into his eyes. They were full of pain, but still full of life. 

“Promise me I won’t see you at work.” 

There were probably twenty different things going on in John’s head. The chaos must have made it so that none of them got through, leaving that blank expression. But Jim could sense everything that was being held back under the surface. Water pooled at the corners of John’s eyes, finally sliding down the sides of his face to drop onto his messy blonde hair. 

“Okay,” John whispered. 

“Do you promise?” Jim asked. He wasn’t satisfied yet. This was too important. “I won’t let you go unless you promise.” 

“Maybe I don’t want you to let me go,” John mumbled. “Maybe I’m scaring myself and you’re the only thing that feels safe.” 

“You still have to promise me,” Jim said. 

John shut his eyes tightly. Jim watched his wet eyelashes, waiting. 

After a long pause, John drew in a shaky breath and spoke. “I promise. I promise you won’t see me at work.” 

Jim got off of him, going back to lying on the bed. John turned towards him, reaching for Jim’s arm to try to wrap it around him. Jim got the hint and pulled him in. John pressed himself in so close that Jim could swear he felt his heartbeat. 

“Just because I never want to see you at work doesn’t mean I never want to see you again.” Jim suddenly felt self-conscious. He had just fucked John, figured out John wanted to kill himself, and went into intimate detail about how he would cut up John’s dead body. But it felt weird asking to see him again. 

“You should come over again. If you want.” Jim told him. “Friday?” 

“Yeah,” John said. “When do you get off work?” 

Jim almost told him--his mouth was already open--but he stopped. “I’m not telling you when I’m at work. You promised I wouldn’t see you there. So you don’t need to know.” 

John sighed. 

“And I don’t know my shifts anyway,” Jim remembered. “They just changed it. That’s why I met you. I went into work and found out I had the night off.” 

“You know that infinite universes thing?” John asked. “In the life where they didn’t change your shifts, you’re taking me apart right now. Maybe that’s the better one.” 

Jim thought about photographing John’s face. Gently lifting his limp hands to collect samples from under his fingernails. Undressing him and washing him. Making the Y incision. Removing the top of the rib cage to reveal all his organs, neatly tucked into his body cavity. 

“This one is better,” Jim said. “In this one I get to see you more than once. But if it makes you feel any better, in that other life, I’d still be gentle with you. I’d handle your heart carefully. Probably try to line up your tattoos right.” 

"Anything else?” John asked. 

“Are you trying to dirty-talk your own autopsy?” Jim wasn’t against it. He was just a little surprised. 

“Is that weird?” John shifted in his arms. 

“I’m weird too,” Jim admitted.


End file.
